Hamilton, Donald - Matt Helm 14 (24 page)

           
It looked like one of the tree
blinds used for deer in the brush country of
Texas
; or perhaps a
machan
designed for ambushing a tiger at its kill in India-not that I considered my
present quarry in the tiger class, but even a domesticated pussycat can be
dangerous when you're dealing with the human variety.

           
As far as concealment was concerned,
it was a pretty good job: a basketlike framework seven or eight feet off the
ground that blended well into the surrounding tangle of branches. It wasn't the
most comfortable blind I've ever occupied, but there was a sort of platform for
standing and a tree limb for sitting. The only catch was that, when the time
came, I'd have to rise and shoot without a rest for the rifle. There was
nothing solid enough to serve the purpose.

           
In fact, since they don't grow very
big trees on those islands, the whole woven-together structure was a bit shaky.
Well, a hundred yards isn't very long range for a rifle, even offhand.

           
"Okay,
cap'n
?"
Jarrel
whispered from below.

           
"Okay. Take her away and hide
her," I said. "And,
Jarrel
-"

           
"
Cap'n
?"

           
"Don't be a goddamn hero,
charging the flaming muzzles of the guns. If you know what I mean. I can assure
you I wouldn't do it for you; don't you do it for me. If it goes sour, it goes
sour, and to hell with it. Just blast out of here, tell them their fancy scheme
didn't work, and hoist a beer to my memory. Okay?"

           
"I'm a guide, mostly," the
black man said softly from the darkness below me. "I take my sports out
and I bring them back. Haven't lost one yet and don't aim to, if I can help it.
Good hunting,
cap'n
."

           
The world was full of
high-principled lunatics, black and white, which was strange, I reflected,
since you wouldn't think they'd last long, any of them. Well, I'd given him an
out. If he didn't want to take it, that was his business.

           
I listened to him making his way
back down to the shore, or tried to. He was pretty good in the woods; and I
didn't really hear much until a very faint splashing told me he was poling the
boat back out into deeper water so he could lower the motor. Then the hydraulic
tilting mechanism whined, the starter whirred, and the sound of the big
powerplant
, at low speed, diminished gradually in the
direction of the brushy little islet he'd pointed out to me, some four hundred
yards distant.

           
I checked the rifle as well as I
could in the dark. It was another of the bellowing, shoulder-busting Magnums
that are very fashionable these days. It's getting so no hunter who values his
image will even set out after rabbits without a portable cannon that will shoot
through a bank vault and a couple of feet of masonry, and kill two or three innocent
bystanders in the street outside, if they're lined up properly.

           
This was a bolt-action Winchester
rifle using the .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge, a shortened and modernized
successor to the old Holland and Holland .300, with a muzzle velocity over
three thousand feet per second, and a muzzle energy approaching two tons. It
was a hell of an artillery piece to have to fire out of a treetop, and I warned
myself that I'd better make the first shot good because the goddamned howitzer
might very well boot me clear out of the blind.

           
I made certain I had a round in the
chamber and a full magazine, and that the floor plate was securely latched.
Those big guns kick so hard they've been known to jar the floor plate open and
dump out the contents of the magazine. It can be embarrassing to find yourself
with only one cartridge when you thought you had four, particularly if, after
the first shot, there's a hostile elephant heading your way under a full head
of steam. At least so I'd been told. I've never met an elephant except in a
zoo, but I have met some fairly hostile people and might encounter a few more
tonight.

           
The telescopic sight was of the
four-power variety recommended to beginners as the best all-round choice for
hunting. I was glad they hadn't given me anything stronger, considering the
shaky perch from which I'd be shooting: the greater the magnification, the
greater the visible shake. I removed the protective caps from the lenses and
peered through the instrument to make certain a hole ran clear through it. That
was about all I could determine in the dark. I hoped no target would arrive
until I had light enough so that I could actually make out the cross-hairs.

           
The mosquitoes were the worst part
of the waiting. I thought nostalgically of the pleasant hillside in
Oklahoma
, cool and bug-free, where I'd lain in wait
for Sheriff
Rullington
, but it didn't help a bit.
Without the dope I'd squirted liberally on myself, plus the mud I'd applied to
my face and hands for camouflage purposes, I couldn't have stood it. As it was,
I had to shut off part of my mind, the part that wanted to slap and scratch
and, as time passed with interminable slowness and dawn approached, even scream
a bit just to let me know I wasn't really having fun.

           
They came with the sunrise, well
after it was light enough to see and shoot. Long before I saw them I could hear
their motor approaching from the north and west. The sound faded for a while,
and I wondered if Martha had lost her way in that swampy maze and what Leonard
would do to her if she had, although I don't normally spend much time worrying
about the fate of traitors-even young and pretty ones with whom I've slept.
Then the motor noise came in again strong and increased in volume steadily. I
saw them come into view, well out in the wide fairway to my left, too far for a
shot even if I'd wanted to try such a fast-moving target from my unstable
position.

           
I watched them through the leaves
and thought I really had to hand it to Mac. The crazy, complex plan was
working. In spite of lack of communications, in spite of everything, he'd
stage-managed everybody to the right spot at the right time. The hidden hunter
was waiting and the tiger or pussycat was coming to the bait, or what he
thought was the bait.

           
There was the boat, a husky yellow
inboard-outboard runabout some eighteen feet long with a tall whip antenna that
reminded me of the houseboat, equipped with similar whiskers, that the admiral
had spotted entering these waters-a communications ship of sorts, perhaps. But
I didn't spend much attention on the boat, because there was the man with the
white hair who'd caused everybody quite enough trouble already. Tiger or
pussycat, he'd worn out his welcome. I mean, goddamn it, we do have a certain
amount of professional pride, and we don't take kindly to outsiders forcing
their way into our closed little undercover community, and trying to use it for
their own cheap purposes. We'd tried to make this clear to Herbert Leonard the
last time he'd come bucking for the title of Spymaster-in-Chief, but he hadn't
taken the hint. It was, therefore-, time for him to go.

           
He had the left hand seat behind the
windshield-excuse me, the seat to port. To starboard, behind the steering
wheel, sat a collegiate-looking youth in a blue yachting cap, with a pipe stuck
jauntily into a corner of his mouth. Between him and Herbert Leonard, steadying
herself with a hand on top of the windshield, stood Martha Borden, still in her
light blue dress. How her bare arms and legs had survived the buggy night, I
hated to think.

           
She used her free hand to point out
the dock. The boat slowed and dropped off plane and swung that way, but only a
little, not enough to bring it within rifle shot of the shore. It was all very
cute, and 1 had to hand it to Leonard, too. He was almost as cute as Mac, using
himself for a decoy like that. I hadn't thought him that clever or dashing, or
even that brave; but I guess there comes a time for every desk officer when he
feels he must go out and prove himself in the field, just once.

           
Anyway, this was one job Leonard
would want to witness. He'd never be quite certain it had got done properly
unless he saw it happen. AJI that now stood between him and the fulfillment of
his ambitions was one man, but that man was one of the half-dozen most
dangerous people in the world. Leonard would never sleep soundly until he saw
Mac dead; and Mac had known this and taken advantage of it to bring Leonard
here under my gun. The rest was up to me.

           
It was very cute, and it got cuter
when they ran the boat aground out there, still well out of range, of course.
They went into an act designed to show anybody watching from shore-Mac and
whoever might be occupying the cabin with him-how terribly mad they were at
each other for this stupidity. The words couldn't be heard at the distance, of
course, but the pantomime was clear: the college boy was obviously blaming the
navigator, Martha, who was obviously telling him hotly that if he'd steered
where she'd pointed it wouldn't have happened. Leonard was obviously telling
both of them to shut up and do something constructive. It was a fine diversion;
and in the meantime the real attack was moving silently towards' the hidden
cabin-at least I suppose they thought they were being silent.

           
One boat was approaching along the
bank just below the blind. I could hear the rhythmic, liquid whisper of the
pole urging it along. It landed-a large, flat-bottomed rowboat with a small
kicker on the stern-and four men in camouflage clothing disembarked at the
exact spot
Jarrel
and I had used some hours earlier.
This was not surprising since a gap in the wall of mangroves made it a logical
landing spot. Having them come so close was a little disconcerting, but there
was an advantage: by the time they'd all got ashore, conferred together in
whispers, spread out, and sneaked inland through the tangled undergrowth, the
best tracker in the world couldn't have made out the signs of our earlier
landing,
Jarrel's
and mine.

           
I watched the man on the right flank
slip by only twenty yards distant, never looking up, of course. That's the
advantage of a tree blind. Neither a deer nor a human being normally expects
danger from above. He was another clean-cut young fellow in top-notch
condition, educated to the teeth, no doubt, trained to break bricks with his
bare hands, capable of picking the buttons off your vest with the machine
pistol he carried, and totally useless in the woods.

           
I could follow him by ear long after
I couldn't see him any longer; and the others were no better, the ones moving
up the other shore of the island, presumably from another impromptu landing
craft. I could trace the progress of the attack quite accurately from my
elevated position by the snapping of twigs, the rustling of leaves, the clink
of weapons, and the breathless curses.

           
Well, Herbert Leonard could hardly
be expected to have a squad of trained jungle fighters readily available, at
least not a squad of trained jungle fighters he could trust to keep their
mouths shut about a curious operation like this.

           
The sun had cleared the horizon now;
and out on the water the college boy with the yachting cap had managed to push
Leonard's boat free. He jumped back behind the wheel and started the craft
moving slowly towards the dock, as a man made his way out along the catwalk
holding a bulky object that turned out to be an electronic megaphone or
bullhorn-loud-hailer, I believe our British friends call it. By now, another
boat was coming into view far down the channel beyond the dock, the way
Jarrel
and 1 had come. It had been a carefully planned
trap; the only trouble was, there hadn't been anybody to catch in it. The man
with the bullhorn confirmed this loudly.

           
"Cabin secure, sir!" he
bellowed across the water. "Nobody home!"

           
Leonard produced a howler of his
own, and his voice reached me quite clearly: "Repeat."

           
"Cabin empty. No sign of
occupation. Repeat, no sign of occupation. Empty. Unoccupied. Orders?"

           
On board the boat, the college-boy
yachtsman produced a pistol and aimed it at Martha. The man on the dock lifted
his megaphone once more.

           
"Orders, sir?" he
repeated.

           
"Hold everything. I'm coming
in," Leonard shouted.

           
I watched him come. I won't pretend
that my pulse and respiration remained absolutely normal as my target moved
slowly into range. The college boy put the boat alongside the rickety pier, and
spoke to the bullhorn artist, who put down his instrument,
unslung
a machine pistol, and aimed it down at Martha. The college boy put his revolver
away, pulled down his yachting cap more firmly, and climbed up to secure the
dock lines. Leonard, still in the boat, gestured towards the girl, and the two
men on the dock reached down and dragged her up between them. Only then did
Leonard move to disembark.